Carmichael, in St. James’s Park. His body had been mutilated in virtually the same horrid way. Lovejoy glanced over at his stocky, ruddy-faced constable. “You can’t seriously be suggesting London has two such killers at work, now, can you?”
Constable Higgins shifted uncomfortably. “No, sir. Of course not.”
Henry Lovejoy let his gaze wander around the Yard. They’d roped off the area to keep back the crowds of curious onlookers already beginning to gather. Some half a dozen constables were walking the Yard in a slowly advancing line, their heads bowed as they searched the ground. Lovejoy didn’t expect them to find anything. They hadn’t found anything before, with Carmichael’s son.
“You’re certain the lad is Dominic Stanton?” said Lovejoy.
“Appears so, sir. There’s an engraved watch in his pocket, and the caretaker who found the body recognized him. Says he used to come here all the time as a little one with his da.”
Lovejoy pressed his lips together. Alfred, Lord Stanton was an active member of the House of Lords and an intimate of the Prince Regent. As bad as things had been after the murder of young Barclay Carmichael last June, this time would be worse.
The disembodied sound of a foghorn drifted in with the mist from the river. Lovejoy shivered. It might be only September, but already the morning held a chill that told of the coming of winter.
“Lord Devlin is here, sir.”
Lovejoy swung around. A tall, aristocratic-looking gentleman crossed the Yard toward them. His breeches were of the finest doeskin, his coat inimitably tailored, his waistcoat of white silk. But a day’s growth of beard shadowed a handsome face set in hard lines, and Lovejoy knew a moment of misgiving. From the looks of things, Devlin had yet to make it to his own bed. And Lovejoy was not at all certain how the young Viscount would react to what the magistrate was about to propose.
“Thank you for coming, my lord,” said Lovejoy as Devlin came up to them. “I apologize for the unseemliness of the hour.”
Heir and only surviving son to the Earl of Hendon, Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, glanced down at the canvas-covered figure at their feet, then up again. “Why precisely am I here?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he followed the line of slowly advancing constables.
The man had strange amber-colored eyes that still had the ability to make Lovejoy uncomfortable even after some eight months of acquaintance. Lovejoy cleared his throat. “We’ve had another young gentleman killed, my lord. And partially butchered. Just like Barclay Carmichael.”
The Viscount’s brows twitched together. “Let me see.”
“I’m afraid it’s a rather distressing sight, my lord.”
Ignoring him, Devlin hunkered down beside the body and flipped back the canvas.
A faint quiver of distaste passed over his lordship’s features, but that was all. Watching him, Lovejoy supposed the Viscount must have seen many such sights—and worse—during his years at war.
Devlin’s gaze traveled over the dew-dampened coat to the point where the boy’s breeches had been cut away. What was left of the Stanton boy’s legs looked like something one might see hanging up for sale in a meat market, the flesh hacked and raw, the exposed bones gleaming white.
“Carmichael’s body was butchered like this?”
Lovejoy brought up a handkerchief to wipe his face. “Yes. Only, in Carmichael’s case it was the arms. Not the legs.”
Devlin studied the boy’s smooth-skinned face, framed in soft blond curls. “Who is this one?”
“A young man by the name of Dominic Stanton. Eldest son of Alfred, Lord Stanton. Just eighteen years old.”
Devlin nodded. “I still don’t understand why I’m here.”
Lovejoy hunched his shoulders against the damp cold. He hadn’t expected this to be easy. “I was hoping perhaps you might be able to help us understand what is happening.”
Devlin held his gaze steadily. “Why me?”
“These young men are of your world, my lord.”
“And you think their killer might also be of my world? Is that what you’re saying?”
“We don’t know, my lord. The boy was obviously killed someplace else and then brought here.”
“And the missing flesh?”
“Has not been found, my lord.”
Devlin stared across the Yard, to where the apse of Westminster Abbey loomed out of the mist. Beyond that, one could just make out the ancient bulk of Westminster Hall. “Why leave the body here, do you suppose?”
“It’s a public spot,” suggested Lovejoy. “The killer obviously wanted the body to be seen. And quickly found.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he was trying to send some sort of message.”
Lovejoy fought back a shiver. “A message? To whom?”
From the fog-shrouded river a hundred yards or so away came the sound of another horn, followed by a burst of laughter from unseen men on a passing barge. Devlin pushed to his feet. “Where does Lord Stanton say his son was last night?”
“We’ve yet to speak to his lordship.”
Devlin nodded, his forehead creasing with a frown as he studied the distorted face of the desecrated body before them. “What’s that in the boy’s mouth?”
Lovejoy had to turn away again and swallow a few times before he could answer. “We’re not certain yet, but it appears to be the severed hoof of a goat.”
Leaving the Yard, Sebastian cut behind the massive stone walls of the House of Lords to where a set of stairs led down to the banks of the Thames. The fog was beginning to lift with the strengthening of the sun; in the clear morning light, the water showed flat and silver.
He didn’t want this again, he thought, pausing at the top of the steps to stare off across the river to where a wherryman worked his oars in slow, rhythmic strokes. Didn’t want to find himself once again sucked into the midst of the kind of tortured emotions that destroyed people’s lives. Murder always seemed to lead to more killing, and Sebastian was tired of killing. Tired of death.
He’d spent last night in the arms of the woman he would make his wife, if only she’d let him. But she wouldn’t let him, and so he had left her bed before the sun rose. He’d just reached his own house on Brook Street when Lovejoy’s constable found him. He rasped his hand across his unshaven face and wished he’d stayed in Kat’s bed.
He heard the magistrate, Sir Henry, come up behind him. “Tell me about the other one, about Barclay Carmichael,” said Sebastian, keeping his gaze on the river.
“His body was also found early in the morning,” said Sir Henry, “hanging upside down from a tree in St. James’s Park. But it was obvious he hadn’t been killed there.”
“You say he had been mutilated, as well?”
“Yes. The arms.” Sir Henry paused at the water’s edge a slight distance away. “He’d been with friends the night before. Left them at White’s and said he was walking home. According to his friends, he was slightly foxed, but not excessively so.”
Sebastian glanced at the magistrate. “That was nearly three months ago. What have you discovered?”
“Very little. No one remembers seeing him after he left White’s.” Sir Henry lifted the collar of his coat against the breeze blowing off the river. “When we found him, Mr. Carmichael’s throat had been slit and his body drained of all blood. The flesh was missing from the arms.”
“Who did the examination of the body?”
“A Dr. Martin, from St. Thomas. I’m afraid he was able to tell us little beyond the obvious.”
“You’ll be ordering a postmortem on Stanton?”
“Of course.”
